


Five Ways That Sheppard Says "I Love You"

by Lenore



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: 5 Things, Episode Related, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-26
Updated: 2006-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Ways That Sheppard Says "I Love You"

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from [](http://storydivagirl.livejournal.com/profile)[storydivagirl](http://storydivagirl.livejournal.com/)

1.

It's maybe their third week in Atlantis when John makes the deal with mess sergeant Yates. McKay gets all the coffee he can drink and Yates gets his own personal jumper piloting lessons. John can always tell the ones with unrealized flyboy dreams, and Yates doesn't miss a beat agreeing to the arrangement. John can't have the brains of their expedition going uncaffeinated. It's a safety issue. That's what he tells himself and Yates. He mostly believes it. Yates doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he nods in good faith when John swears him to secrecy. Rodney never suspects a thing, enjoying his twelve cups a day as if it's simply his due, just the way John intended.

* * *

2.

People talk about John having a death wish, but the fact is he's pretty damned invested in staying in one piece. When he takes a risk, it's calculated. When he puts himself on the line, there's a hell of a good reason. True recklessness was Lt. Howard B. Cuttee, Mad Dog, not a terribly original nickname, but well earned.

John knew he was trouble from the first day of flight school, a competitive son of a bitch with no sense of self-preservation. Their instructors tried to rein him in, but some pilots just have an Icarus complex. Cuttee was the worst incarnation of it, the kind who needs company in his immolation.

He and Cuttee were top of their class, always jockeying for that number one spot, so Cuttee's challenges often as not were aimed at John. _Hey, Shep, how about you try keeping up with me today?_ John, young jackass that he was, always aimed to do one better than that, until he learned his lesson. It was just him and Cuttee out that day. The weather report had been favorable, but suddenly there was a squall gathering dead ahead on the horizon and rapidly worsening visibility. John's instincts screamed at him to get the hell out of there, but Cuttee's voice was in his ear, egging him on. Finally, John veered sharply and headed home, but the fact that he'd hesitated even for a moment disturbed the hell out of him. Good pilots listened to their gut, not crazy-ass cowboys who didn't know when to quit.

After training, he and Cuttee thankfully went their separate ways, but there was a part of John always expecting to hear the news that he'd gotten himself killed. It came when he was on a mission in northern Afghanistan, four helicopters down in the southern theater, Cuttee's among them. John guessed the real story even before the details started to trickle in. A high winds advisory ignored. The pilots continuing on to an area known for its dangerously erratic weather patterns. No imperative to justify the risk. From the looks on his friends' faces as they sat together in the officer's mess, John wasn't the only one who understood what the brass would carefully conceal.

So there's a part of John that blames himself for not understanding sooner that Rodney has gone off the rails about this miraculous new power source. Warning signs everywhere ("maybe the Ancients weren't as smart as we think"), but John has always believed that Rodney's survival instinct balances out his arrogance. He's never wanted to see Howard B. Cuttee in him. Refuses to accept the obvious right up to the moment when the place is going into meltdown around them, and Rodney's hands are still sticky with the determination to keep trying.

"I've seen pilots like this!" John yells at him.

Maybe it's the rageful truth of it that makes Rodney finally step back from the edge.

Flying their way through a minefield of death rays is a hell of a lot easier than figuring out the afterwards. John is so furious he feels like he's choking on it, so he does what he does, avoids the situation, and Rodney is Rodney, and keeps right on persisting. They have their showdown only because John can't beat a retreat to the transporter fast enough.

Rodney's apology is just as rambling and inexpert as John would have imagined, but finally he manages to circle around to the point, "I would hate to think that recent events might have permanently dimmed your faith in my abilities, or your trust. At the very least, I hope I can earn that back."

"That may take a while," he says stiffly.

Rodney looks stricken, and John feels that in his gut, at the same time he just wants to shake Rodney and yell at him, "You can't be a fucking cowboy with other people's lives."

Rodney's gaze drops to the ground. "I see."

John steps into the elevator and takes a breath, and the words just come out of him, "But I'm sure you can manage it, if you really want to."

Rodney looks so fucking relieved that John can't help giving him a small smile. As the doors close, Rodney is smiling back, and John can't remember the last time he forgave someone for crossing that particular line with him.

He'd like to pretend he doesn't know what it means, but even he isn't that oblivious.

* * *

 

3.

"Can you just—"

"I'm doing my best here, Rodney."

"No, no! To the left! You do know your left from your right, I'm assuming, Colonel?"

"Being snide is not helping."

"It's jammed in there. Maybe if we try wiggling it."

"Okay— Ow! That's my hand."

"Well, why didn't you move it out of the way?"

John thwaps him upside the head.

"Hey! That was uncalled for."

John puts his hands on his hips. "Are we going to wiggle this thing, or what?"

"Fine. But no more hitting."

They try again, and the thing is really wedged tight, and that doesn't improve Rodney's mood any.

"Not like that!" he snaps. "You're pushing it back in further. When did you get this stupid? I really think you used to be smarter."

"Yeah? Well, you've always been this obnoxious, just in case you were wondering."

Finally, John pushes and Rodney pulls, and the thing just miraculously pops loose.

"Oh, thank God," Rodney breathes in relief.

Ronon and Teyla haul them back up out of the cave.

"So you were successful?" Teyla says hopefully.

Rodney nods, showing off his prize. "No thanks to Colonel Sheppard, who can't follow simple directions."

"Keep it up, Rodney. I can still leave you down there."

Ronon shakes his head, and John's pretty sure it means _get a room_.

A smile hovers uncertainly on Teyla's lips, as if she's torn between "your affection for one another in most endearing" and "Earth rituals of courtship confuse me."

Rodney only has eyes for the ZPM, and they head back to the gate.

* * *

 

4.

John doesn't bother calling. He just buys the plane ticket, reserves the room, calls up the rental car place for something fast and obvious and hopefully red. It's a short trip, and by mid morning, he's kicking up dust on the road through the Nevada desert in a candy apple Mustang. At Area 51, his top-top-top security clearance gets him a salute from the marines standing guard and waved through the gate.

He goes through a pretty rigorous security routine, and then an utterly silent staff sergeant escorts him to McKay's lab.

Rodney is leaning over a computer, checking some work from one of his underlings with the predictable air of disappointment. "Try again." But there's more resignation than mockery in it, as if acting superior would take more effort than it's worth.

"So," John says in a lazy drawl that makes Rodney's head snap up. "You feeling lucky?"

There's a hopeful lunge in Rodney's eyes that should make this trip just as interesting as John was hoping, and then Rodney sighs. "You mean gambling, don't you?"

John jingles the car keys at him. "It's a convertible."

"I've got important work to do here," Rodney blusters, only half-heartedly. "I can't just—"

"I'll have you back in time for work tomorrow morning."

"I'm not packed."

John slings an arm across his shoulders and walks him to the door. "It's one night. Buy stuff there."

The road is flat and straight, and the parched landscape whizzes by dizzyingly as John flirts with the far end of the speedometer. Rodney fiddles with the radio, and John expects this to lead to a confrontation, but Rodney stops at the first thick chords of Steppenwolf.

"What? My degree in physics rescinds my right to enjoy classic rock?" Rodney says with a snort when he catches John eyeing him.

It's ninety miles to Vegas, and the way John drives that's not far. They don't say much, and John has always thought that this is one of the very best things about them. They get each other without a lot of talking.

There's nothing but wasteland for the longest time, and then a patch of civilization shimmers on the horizon, strip mall and gas station the modern equivalent of date palms and watering holes. John pulls in at the local Walgreens.

"Want anything?"

"Caffeine," Rodney tells him, "whatever form."

John picks up a couple of those Starbucks coffee beverage things in the glass bottles, two boxes of condoms, and the value sized bottle of lube. The woman at the checkout counter does a double take, and John gives her his best smile. It was always concern for the team dynamic, not regulations, that kept him away from Rodney in the past. The one bright spot in not working together anymore is finally being free to have lots and lots of sex.

They get to Las Vegas just in time for lunch. John hands over the keys to the Mustang to the valet at the Venetian, checks them in, and goes up to dump his bag in the room. By the time he finishes, Rodney has already scouted out a taqueria in the hotel where he wants to eat.

Afterwards, they explore. When they find the pool deck modeled after a Venetian garden, Rodney scowls at him. "A swimsuit and sunscreen would come in handy right about now."

John grins. "That's why people invented gift shops."

Rodney picks out trunks with palm trees on them and complains when he can't find SPF higher than 45. John also buys himself some swim gear, and they change in the bathhouse. Rodney practically goes cross-eyed when John comes out wearing an especially skimpy Speedo.

"Ready?" he asks, pretending not to notice the reaction.

They stake out a quiet corner, settle onto lounge chairs, John in the sun, Rodney protected beneath an umbrella. John tosses him the copy of "American Scientist" he picked up for him in the gift shop, and Rodney rigorously slathers on the sunscreen. When he starts groping for his back, John gets up to help him.

"Here." He takes the bottle, and Rodney flops onto his stomach. John puts a knee onto the chaise and leans over, rubbing the lotion in meticulously, as if lives depend on it. Rodney tenses at first and then relaxes completely, barely choking off a moan when John really digs into the muscles of his shoulders.

John smiles fondly and tells him, "I think you're good now."

"Oh, um— yes. Thank you."

Later, they splash around in the water. The pool is only four feet deep, and serious swimming isn't the point anyway. When Rodney starts to get hungry again, they call it a day and make a return trip to the gift shop. Rodney wants to go to Lutece for dinner, and he needs a jacket.

John goes upstairs to change. Rodney heads to the restaurant to secure a table. After the six-course tasting menu with its full complement of wines, they're just fuzzy enough that gambling seems like a really, really good idea. They hit the blackjack tables, and then Rodney wants to try his luck with the dice. Eventually they end up playing roulette, because Rodney "has a system, never fails." Fifty dollars in the hole, he still refuses to admit that maybe his system's not as foolproof as he likes to think.

There's a busty blonde in sequins next to John who keeps giving him the eye. When he doesn't return it, she ups the ante and starts tracing a finger over his thigh.

Rodney happens to glance over just as her scarlet nails are heading for his inseam, and he sighs and mutters, "Fine. Ditch me. See if I care."

John pushes Rodney's remaining stack of chips onto black just as the attendant is calling for the last bet.

"Hey!" Rodney shouts.

But the wheel is already in motion, too late to take it back.

"Black 31," the attendant announces.

"Oh." Rodney's mouth makes a perfect circle of surprise.

"Come on." John grabs the chips and Rodney. "You've got to stop while you're ahead. Besides," he waggles his eyebrows, "we should celebrate."

Rodney grumbles something about "the system was finally working," but doesn't really object when John steers him over to cashier. Rodney pockets his winnings, and they head upstairs to their room.

"There's just one bed," Rodney says, a few steps inside.

John closes the door and pulls Rodney around and kisses him.

"Oh," Rodney says when John lets him go, "so maybe that's not going to be a problem?"

John grins and sinks to his knees and pulls Rodney's belt from the loops with a flourish.

"Jesus." Rodney sucks in a breath audibly. "I thought you were just teasing me when you did that thing with the sunscreen."

To prove how serious he is, John opens Rodney's pants and strokes his cock, hot and already hard, through his underwear. Sometimes he'd find himself calculating the size of Rodney's package back on Atlantis, trying to do the math from the soft bulge in Rodney's uniform pants. He might have been practicing restraint, but he wasn't dead. John is pleased to find when he eases down Rodney's boxers that his guesstimate of "pretty damned big" is right on the money.

"Wait." Rodney looks down at him, frowning. "You didn't ingest any unusual food or beverages while you were offworld, did you?"

John bites him playfully on the thigh.

"Ow! I was just making sure!"

John circles his hand over his hip and gazes up at him. "This is all me, Rodney."

"God." Rodney starts to shake.

His cock is already wet at the tip, and John licks at bitter salt, pretty damned turned on that Rodney's turned on by him. Rodney makes the most amusing noises when he really, really wants something, and John nibbles and licks and teases just to get to hear them.

Rodney's fingers curl into his shoulders. "Damn it! Will you just—"

John takes him all the way into his throat.

"Fuck!"

Rodney goes off, just like that.

"Damn," Rodney mutters, shuddering through the last of his orgasm.

"Go get on the bed," John tells him.

Rodney loses the rest of his clothes, a trail of shirt and tie, jacket and socks across the carpet. John pulls the Walgreens bag out of his suitcase and tosses the condoms onto the bed.

"You were plotting this all along," Rodney says, more admiration than accusation.

John plunks the value-sized bottle of lube onto the nightstand, and Rodney's forehead scrunches up.

"_What_ exactly were you planning?"

John grins evilly.

Not that he actually has any kinky intentions, not this time, at least. He shucks his clothes and stretches out over Rodney and kisses him, long and wet and slow, over and over, the luxury of knowing no one's going to interrupt them with some impending apocalypse. Rodney makes little mewling sounds and pushes his body up against John's and strings kisses over John's chest and neck and wherever else he can reach.

By the time John has Rodney on his side, fingers inside him, Rodney's noises are louder and much more insistent.

"Okay, okay," John rolls on a condom. "I'm on it."

John enters him with one thrust, and, God, Rodney is tight. John can feel his pulse around his cock and against his lips when he kisses his neck.

"Oh, God. Oh, please. _Please_." Rodney squirms against him demandingly.

John starts to move, and Rodney gets hiccupy when he's really excited. John has no idea how he sounds himself, because the voice in his head is so loud, a pounding _more, more,_ until it's finally too much.

Afterwards, Rodney lounges against him, and they don't say much, just a matter-of-fact observation from Rodney, "Yeah, I miss you, too."

John smiles. That's not all of it, but for now, it'll do.

They get about forty-five minutes sleep that night and hurry through a shower in the morning. They get dressed, and John packs Rodney's new clothes along with his stuff.

At the door, Rodney hesitates. "So...are we, I don't want to say fuck buddies, but is this, you know, a regular arrangement?"

John goes blank, not just on the outside. "Sure, Rodney. Whatever you want."

* * *

 

5.

They stop for coffee and McMuffins on the way out of town, Jethro Tull on the radio, the sun now a spectacular pink. Rodney munches away, cheerfully oblivious, and John keeps his eyes on the road, the horizon seeming to stretch out endlessly in front of them.

"I always missed these on Atlantis," Rodney says, licking fingers. "Now sometimes I wish I could get some of that Athosian tarrot root stew. Go figure. What about you, Colonel?"

He sighs irritably. "Are you _ever_ going to call me John?"

Rodney startles, his coffee spilling on his hand, and he grabs for napkins. Then he stares. "Oh, my God." He takes a breath. "So, not an arrangement, huh? But an actual…_thing_."

John shakes his head. "Oh, sure. _Now_ you get it. Because I ask you to use my _name_."

The wind whooshes against the windows, and John can almost hear Rodney's brain at work.

"It's a reciprocated thing, you know," Rodney says quietly.

John turns to look.

Rodney's eyes are soft, and the corner of his mouth turns up. "_John_."

John smiles broadly, and the car purrs as he steps down harder on the gas. It feels damned good to be going forward at last.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a section of dialogue in the second section borrowed directly from the show. You know which one. Credit for that to the SGA writers.


End file.
